


Two Sides Of The Same Obol

by stripyjamjar



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, First Kiss, Hair-pulling, Heart-to-Heart, Idiots in Love, Introspection, M/M, Past Megaera/Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Pining, Post-v1.0, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Zagreus' Emotional Support Network, look all i'm saying is that if zagreus doesn't have a hair-pulling kink then i'm greatly mistaken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjamjar/pseuds/stripyjamjar
Summary: Truth be told, Zagreus hadn’t spared Thanatos a thought when he left, that first time. The idea of never seeing him again simply hadn’t crossed his mind. It was too big, too absolute: impossible. Of course they’d see each other again. They’d grown up together, shared secrets and embarrassments and struggles. Even Hypnos – Than’s own twin! – had laughingly called them two sides of the same obol.Or, Zagreus' friends wish him well, but really, how can one god be so oblivious?Must be his mortal blood.
Relationships: Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 280





	Two Sides Of The Same Obol

**Author's Note:**

> I have played entirely too much Hades and now these two idiots live in my mind rent-free. So this is how I spend my spare time: writing Zagreus having conversations with his emotional support network, who are probably longing for him to get his act together and just kiss Thanatos already.

**i. Tartarus**

When he’s found in Tartarus, Zagreus’ spirits are high.

The shades here are lumbering, sluggish – he could almost evade their clumsy swipes and slip through unscathed, except that there would be no fun in such a victory. Achilles can wax lyrical about honourable battle and Zagreus will listen attentively, but when it’s just him and the endless stone chambers of the dead city, he’s begun to enjoy himself more than he’d care to admit.

A grinning skull swoops into view around a corner and Zagreus bludgeons it instinctively. The first time he traversed these halls, it would have sunk its teeth into his arm before he’d even registered its presence, but his flicker of pride is quickly dampened as another appears, then another. From behind them there is a sickly clatter of bones, which can mean only one thing.

Zagreus groans.

He hefts the spear in both hands. Its twin points are as sharp as the day Achilles wielded them, and Zagreus winces slightly at what he’s about to do. “Sorry, Varatha.”

Then he steps into the next chamber and crushes three skulls into dust with his first two-handed cleave.

It’s as though he was never nervous, never scared – as though he’s never flattened himself against one of Tartarus’ cold stone walls to avoid the gaze of a thick-armed wretch or dived fruitlessly to the floor as a disembodied hand jerked forward to wring his neck. Now, with Varatha singing through the air, Zagreus feels weightless. He shifts his stance as another skull charges him, and the spear’s haft punches clean through its forehead. Fragments of bone drift to the ground, but Zagreus has already moved on, assessing the chittering, clattering mound in the centre of the chamber.

The noise rises as he approaches. An angry litany of jawbones juddering, skulls clacking against each other as every one of them seeks to detach itself from the mass and fling itself headlong towards him. Zagreus has never studied one of these nests up close before, choosing instead to either attack from a safe distance or otherwise to simply glide past, pretending he hasn’t noticed them. As he watches, fascination overriding fear, one of the skulls breaks free with a sickening crunch.

“Sorry, mate,” he quips, bringing Varatha down.

He makes short work of the nest after that, even if he grimaces slightly at using Achilles’ legendary spear as such a blunt instrument. It’s hard work, but necessary, if he’s to have a moment of peace in these halls. As the nest shatters apart, the last few unbroken skulls decide that Lord Hades’ ire is preferable to the wrath of this young newcomer with his flashing spear and smouldering eyes. They dart away to the safety of cracks in the walls, grinding their teeth and waiting for their numbers to swell enough that they swarm forth once more.

“If I had a head, and nothing else,” Zagreus tells them, knocking the butt of the spear against the flagstones to remove any lingering bone shards, “I’d be more careful about where I stuck it.”

“Very clever,” says a voice behind him, and Zagreus turns in time to see a familiar green glow. “Tell me, does rampaging through Tartarus give you ample time to come up with such wit, or do you think them up in your chambers betweentimes?”

Zagreus grins. “What can I say, Than? They just come naturally.”

Thanatos _tsk_ s at him and sweeps past, towards the door. “If only your prowess with the Eternal Spear was as polished. Come on, I don’t have long to spare.”

“Were you _watching_?!”

But Thanatos is already a whirling shadow in the next chamber, curling tendrils of manifest darkness around the wretches unlucky enough to be waiting there. For a moment, Zagreus pauses, one hand on the doorframe and Varatha’s points drooping as he stares.

Dealing death is a thankless, lonely job: Thanatos’ presence on the surface is repulsed more often than it is welcomed. From the way he describes it, mortals don’t often go to the grave willingly – and how could they be blamed, when their time is so short? Death comes for them anyway, grave and inexorable. An observer could be forgiven for concluding that Thanatos resents his duties, but Zagreus has seen how gently he guides the puzzled shades of children into the House of Hades.

 _Come now, don’t cry_ , he’ll say, and sometimes the youngest ones will listen to him and clutch at his robe in lieu of a lost parent or sibling. The older ones are more wary, having learned to fear death, and their sobs won’t be placated with some soft words. Thanatos never raises his voice; he lets them edge away towards the cheery presence of Hypnos, who makes them laugh through their tears with his exuberance – and more often, his snores.

Thanatos hasn’t borne his responsibilities so well for so long because of his chthonic nature, but in spite of it. Sometimes when Zagreus speaks with Chaos, they will offer a casual remark that reminds him – with a sickening jolt – how little concern they hold for mortals. Even Nyx, with all her motherly affection, occasionally lets slip a word or phrase that Zagreus is sure would uncover a vast difference of opinion, were he to pursue it. Nyx and Chaos: he can’t blame them, not really. Their power is so great, so far removed from his own. But it does mean he’s all the more grateful for Thanatos’ tacit understanding: it must be an effort.

Perhaps it comes from his experience among mortals, but Thanatos is brimming with compassion, if one only looks – and his indefatigable devotion to his work is the result.

How different, then, from the calculated storm of a god before Zagreus now. Brows drawn together in concentration, Than is a maelstrom of whip-quick blades and slicing shadows. Shades barely reach him before they’re cut down in their tracks, and there’s no telling whether it was that inexorable scythe or some deadly magic at work. When Thanatos fights like this, Zagreus is acutely aware of how his chthonic heritage separates them. Son of Hades he may be, but he’ll always have a streak of mortality in him: he’s reminded of it with every graze.

Whereas Thanatos is pure darkness, and Zagreus is fully cognisant of the fact that he holds back during their competitions.

Transfixed, he watches as Than spins his scythe and the shade of a witch combusts into a haze of purple, instantly dissipating. A disembodied hand floats silently towards him, and Zagreus leaps forward on instinct, skewering it through the palm and bearing it to the ground.

“Decided to join in, have you?”

So Zagreus does, declining to think about the ache in his chest as Thanatos flashes him a small smile. The two of them weave in and out of each other’s attacks: Zagreus hurls Varatha close enough to ruffle the dark folds of Thanatos’ cloak, and Than arcs his scythe a hair’s breadth from grazing Zagreus’ navel, but they never collide. Finally, Varatha pins the last of the witches to a wall. She shrieks with fury before bursting into motes of light that wisp away into the gloom.

Zagreus is breathing heavily, but the fight has at least alleviated some of the tension in his shoulders. The wretches in Tartarus were little more than mortal lowlifes: thieves, traitors, and murderers. He’d asked Achilles, once, whether his path of destruction was any better than that of Ares, far above, working his bloody will upon the mortal realm.

 _Shades end up in Tartarus for a host of reasons, lad,_ Achilles had replied. _They lived twisted, bitter lives and have only become more so in death. Besides, even Exagryph lacks the power to banish them completely. All you’re doing is… delaying them. For a while, at least._

The more Zagreus learns about the mortal world, the more he can begin to fathom what would drive them to such hapless ends. The thought does not sit well in the pit of his stomach, but it’s all too easy to forget about it when he and his blades are cutting through swathes of assailants.

Thanatos is waiting for him at the other side of the room.

“What, were you half asleep? I got at least ten more than you.”

Zagreus shrugs. “I lost count.”

“Lucky I was here then, to help you out _and_ keep track.” He swings his scythe up to its habitual place on his shoulder, the movement practised and effortless, and Zagreus swallows hard.

“Uh, Than? Before you go, I just – I wanted to apologise. Again. For not talking to you before I left, that first time.”

Thanatos’ expression doesn’t change, but there is a sudden tension in his jaw: something within him has ratcheted tight. “I already told you it’s fine.”

“I know, but I don’t think it _is_ fine. We’ve not had a proper conversation since, and–”

“I’ve been busy.”

“–and you’re never around the House. When am I supposed to talk to you?”

Thanatos tosses his head, his mouth a pursed line. “You sound like a spoilt child. I have my duties, and you have this impossible task you’re going to keep hurling yourself at until it kills you. _Again_.”

“So it comes down to that. You just don’t want me to leave.” This is the crux of it: the sore spot that Zagreus keeps poking, heedless of the consequences. What he’s hoping to gain from it, he has no idea.

This time, Than won’t be goaded. “I turn up time and again to help you, don’t I?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Zagreus. If you want me to stop, you have only to say. It’s not as though I don’t have other things to be doing.”

Sighs aside, there is a steely note in Thanatos’ tone that Zagreus knows he should take as the warning it is. But this is the most they’ve spoken in weeks, and only the Fates know how long it might be until their next encounter. He forges on regardless.

“I’m – look, I’m just trying to apologise properly, all right? I shouldn’t have left without saying anything, but you’d been gone for so long, and I was _ready_ – I had to take my chances. And besides,” he continues in the face of overwhelming silence, making a valiant attempt at a roguish grin, “it’s not as though you ever have trouble finding me, is it?”

Something about it is the wrong thing to say: Than’s face shutters, and he rises almost unconsciously a few inches, eyes hidden in the shadows of his hood. They’d been almost nose-to-nose and Zagreus hadn’t quite realised.

“As you say, Zag. Be seeing you.”

Oh no. Zagreus scrabbles to bring him back, rummaging for the decanter slung from his belt. “Look, Than, will you at least take–”

A flash of green, blinding in the dimness.

“–this.” And Zagreus is left holding a bottle of Olympus’ finest, speaking to an empty room. He sighs and slides it carefully back into place. The few remaining numbskulls glowing at the edges of the chamber hum menacingly at him as he strides past. He mutters something unprintable at them and they fall silent, struck by the force of his glare.

Barging into the next chamber, he’s almost disappointed to realise that he’s stumbled across one of Charon’s little markets. Zagreus lowers Varatha slowly, willing his pulse to calm. He should welcome these brief respites: he knows all too well what’s waiting for him on the other side of the doors.

“Hello, Charon,” he calls, knowing better than to expect an answer. This chamber is quiet and dank. The ruby waters of the Styx reflect desaturated ripples onto the walls and ceiling. Soft gurgles echo back at him from where the river disappears into the dark maze of tunnels and canals that crisscross Tartarus and wind up back at the House.

Zagreus fell in once, long ago. He’d been talking to Dusa, and – gods, he cringes to think about it – and he’d been trying to impress Megaera. He can’t even remember what he’d been saying, but he knows he was definitely not paying attention to Dusa’s answer, because Meg was at the other end of the hall, poised and polished with her armour gleaming and her hair tossed over her shoulder. There was something electric about her – still is, if Zagreus is honest with himself – but back then it was compounded by her mystery. Kept busy and focused on her duties, she was rarely seen at the House, but oh, how his gaze trailed around after her whenever she was present.

Dusa had been chatting away and Zagreus had been shooting furtive glances past her while he attempted to perch himself on the balustrade in a manner that would catch Meg’s eye as she turned away from Achilles. In his stupidity, he’d decided to scramble upright at the very moment that Meg finished her conversation and Dusa asked him, _So what do you think, your highness?_

And of course he’d fumbled his footing and slipped straight over in front of the three of them: Dusa, rightly concerned; Meg, wryly amused; and Achilles, mortified on his behalf.

Blood is thicker than water, and Zagreus will remember the impact of it for all of his long life. It was warm but cloying; the Styx is older even than his father’s halls. It flowed here before there were walls built around it, before there were mortal souls to ferry from the surface, before Nyx cleaved from Chaos and claimed the darkness as her own. Falling into the Styx was like falling into the reassuring arms of an old lover: easy, warming, yet with something unresolved lurking beneath its familiar caress.

 _I can’t breathe_.

Styx tightened her grip, and her warmth was shot through with an undercurrent of icy terror. Zagreus struck out, but he’d lost his bearings in an instant and it was like swimming in honey. How had he sunk so far so quickly? Everything was a haze of scarlet; he thrashed, but his arms were aflame with exhaustion and he may as well have been propelling himself downwards.

_can’tbreathecan’tbreatheCAN’TBREATHE–_

(A soft, soothing voice tickled the back of his mind, murmuring _sshh my darling, come home, just let go…_ and a long-ignored part of him whispered how easy it would be to stop struggling and let himself sink.)

Something solid cracked into his hip, dispelling the fugue of gentle self-destruction with the shock of pain. Zagreus grabbed at it instinctively, scrabbling for purchase on its smoothness before he gripped something cylindrical: a pole, perhaps. It moved through the viscous waters steadily enough, but by this point his fingers were numb and every muscle trembled with the effort of holding his breath. He managed to hook an arm around it just as he broke the surface and was hauled bodily upwards.

For a few terrible, silent seconds, he still couldn’t breathe. Then there was a firm _thump_ between his shoulder blades and Zagreus’ body abruptly realised it was free. He retched, coughing up blood that spattered on the pale floor even as he wheezed, crisp air flooding his lungs.

Glancing back, he realised – ridiculously – that he’d travelled no more than a few feet downriver. He was on the steps beside the Pool of Styx, the flagstones cold and hard beneath his knees. A shiver raced through him, and then another: soon he was shaking in a way he’d never experienced before. Chilled to his core, his feet sputtered and sparked on the verge of extinction.

“Kkkkkhhhhhhhhaaarrrrrr.”

The shadow next to him shifted, and Zagreus peered up at the unsmiling visage of Charon, upright and with one hand outstretched in his customary fashion.

Did he – did he want _payment?_

A beat, and Zagreus realised that the solid thing he still clutched was an oar. Charon’s oar. He cleared his throat. “Oh,” he managed, tilting it towards him. “S-sorry.”

Charon took it and turned away silently.

“Wait!” Zagreus burst out, through chattering teeth. “Uh, thank you. Thanks. Um.”

“Hhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnnn.”

Then he was gone, and the rest of the House had descended on the young prince.

Zagreus shakes his head, dragging himself out of the uncomfortable reverie. “Ugh,” he says to no-one in particular, staring down at the roiling, seductive waters as they flow through this little chamber, heedless of Charon’s wares. There’s a reason he’s never mounted an escape attempt by boat. Those drifting hands that wave so languidly from the depths await only a convenient moment for an unwitting passerby to join them.

“Be with you in a moment, Charon.”

A mass of bubbles has caught his attention. Zagreus crosses the chamber, pulls out his fishing rod and casts his line in a single practised movement. He chews his bottom lip while he waits for a bite, still half-engrossed in the memory of that day.

Granted, he’d been younger then, but he knew full well what he was doing when he’d beckoned Dusa down to talk with his eyes and attentions entirely elsewhere. Did she notice his wandering gaze, his lacklustre responses?

Who is he kidding? She must have done; he was an idiot to think she wouldn’t.

Zagreus groans softly, rubbing his face with one hand. He should probably apologise.

“Hey, if it goes as well as my apology to Than, perhaps she’ll do me the honour of hating me forever too.”

The line jerks and Zagreus yanks it towards himself with a lack of technique that would make Uncle Poseidon grimace. It’s a Knucklehead on the end, flapping uselessly. He’s caught scores of these in the past, but for some reason this one looks particularly pathetic, its wide green eyes staring up at him in dumb panic as its tail fails to propel it away.

“Fine,” he tells it, unlatching its mouth from the bait on the end of his line. “Go and live out the rest of your fishy undeath in peace.”

The fish makes a dull _plash_ as it hits the Styx, and Zagreus can’t suppress a shudder. He turns his back on the turbid waters and takes a deep breath, as if to remind himself that he’s still above them.

Charon gives him a cordial groan as he approaches. Among the wares he’s offering today is a shining golden boon from Athena, and Zagreus gazes at it longingly: it’s far outside what he can afford with his current meagre earnings.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider giving me a discount?” he asks out of habit, and can’t prevent a grin at Charon’s low _hahhh_ in response, despite its implicit _not on your life_. “Fair enough, mate.”

He stands there a while longer, ostensibly considering a purchase, but conscious that he’s stalling. The wretches of Tartarus may pose less of a threat to him than they once did, but the Fury sisters are another matter entirely, and he knows this place well enough by now to guess what awaits him beyond the next door.

“Say, Charon,” Zagreus asks suddenly, surprising himself as much as the taciturn boatman. “Do you and Thanatos get on? I mean, as much as you can with Than, him being so…” He waves a hand, searching for the words.

“Guuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

“He’s just so _frustrating_ sometimes. Any time he’s uncomfortable, he’s just – poof! – gone. And apparently that’s all the time at the moment, since for some reason he’s taken issue with my desire to get out of this place.”

“Hhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

Zagreus glances up. Charon is as unreadable as ever, but whatever that sound was, it was particularly emphatic. “What, am I missing something? Have I done something wrong? He knows I’m leaving now, anyway – and gods know I’ve apologised enough for that.”

“Kkkkkhhhhhhaaaaahhh.”

“What does he think will happen? That I’ll find my mother and just forget all about him? About everyone down here?”

This time there is no response but a low grumble, and Charon’s wide-brimmed hat tilts almost imperceptibly to one side.

Zagreus sits down on the floor, abruptly and with rather more force than he intended. “Charon. Are you – are you telling me he _does_ think that?” It would explain a lot, certainly, beginning with the reason Than has been so studiously avoiding him these past weeks. He’s been prickly whenever Zagreus has mentioned Nyx, too, and Zagreus groans in realisation. “Blood and darkness, he must think I’m the most ungrateful creature in the Underworld.”

“Hrrooooooooohhhhh.”

Dazed, Zagreus stares up at Athena’s boon until it fills his vision and all he can see is its golden glow. Who else is under the same misconception? How many other people does he need to explain himself to? He thinks of Nyx, her heart heavy with hidden sorrow as the boy-god she raised as her own gets closer and closer still to the surface. Achilles, spurring him on with too much pride to tell how it stings to wish him good luck, every time aware it might be goodbye. And… and Thanatos.

Truth be told, Zagreus hadn’t spared Thanatos a thought when he left, that first time. The idea of never seeing him again simply hadn’t crossed his mind. It was too big, too absolute: impossible. Of course they’d see each other again. They’d grown up together, shared secrets and embarrassments and struggles. Even Hypnos – Than’s own twin! – had laughingly called them two sides of the same obol.

Sitting here on the cold flagstones, Zagreus thinks that perhaps he can understand why mortals mourn so movingly when their loved ones pass on. Never seeing Thanatos again would be… would be like climbing a well-known staircase, predicting every tread and creak only to blindly step into nothingness at the very top. That stomach-lurching stab of shock, just picturing his face.

Gods, no wonder Than is so angry with him.

But Zagreus has never been one to sit and brood over his mistakes, and even though a small part of him wants to run back to the House the conventional way to make a start on his list of explanations, he’s not even sure he knows the way from here. Better to push forwards, like he’s always done. He’s pretty sure he heard a muffled maniacal cackle from the chamber beyond, anyway, so perhaps he’ll be home sooner than he’d like.

He’s correct: Alecto is waiting for him, and she cuts him to pieces.

**ii. The Great Hall**

“Ooh, how’d you die this time?” Hypnos calls, kicking back in that gravity-defying way of his.

Zagreus hauls himself upright from the Pool of Styx and flicks blood from his fingertips onto the tiles. “I’ll let you guess.”

Hypnos’ toes wiggle with excitement. “Errm, a Snakestone?”

“What’s a – no, wait, I don’t want to know. But no, not that.” There’s blood dripping from his hair, sticky and warm.

“A Lout? A Splitter? One of those floaty pink things with lasers? It wasn’t Meg again, was it, because after last time I really thought she’d–”

Zagreus shakes his head. “No, no, and no. Sharper.”

“Sharp– oh,” Hypnos’ eyes widen in understanding. “Alecto.”

“That’s the one.” Zagreus aims for enthusiasm but ends up somewhere around bitterness. The Great Hall has never seemed as long as it does today. (Tonight?) He’s almost passed Hypnos when he realises that it’s also fallen uncharacteristically silent.

“Hey, are you all right?”

Hypnos jerks upright in the same way as he does when he’s caught napping on the job, but it’s clear something’s wrong. His gaze is unfocused and glassy. “Who, me? Never better. Um, there’s no chance that… I mean, you’d tell me if she was – if your Dad decided…?”

“…to let her back in the House?” Zagreus finishes for him, and Hypnos nods mutely. “I don’t think she’ll ever be allowed, if Meg has her way. Besides, now I’ve met her… I don’t get the feeling she’d want to be here.”

“Oh! Good. That’s good.” Sinking back into his floating mass of blankets, Hypnos visibly relaxes. “Alecto, well, she was – I mean, she didn’t…” He trails off again.

Zagreus has never seen him this agitated about anything. It’s been a while since Meg’s sisters had their House privileges rescinded even by Underworld standards, but Alecto and the scars she leaves are not easily forgotten. He imagines her cutting laughter, her cruel hands, the sharpness of her smile, and then looks anew at Hypnos, whose eyelids are already drooping.

“Don’t worry,” he says, and this is gentle. “I’m just getting this place nice and cosy. I’m not going to let anyone mess it up, Fury or not.”

“Great,” murmurs Hypnos, and Zagreus isn’t sure he’s still conscious until he adds: “Thanks Zag, you’re the best.” This is followed by a reverberating snore that has Zagreus grimacing and glancing up towards the end of the hall. Thankfully, his father isn’t there to chide Hypnos for his lack of diligence this time.

Whatever Alecto did here made quite the impression. Zagreus resolves to ask Than about it before a stab of regret reminds him that they’re no longer on speaking terms. Sighing, he leaves Hypnos to his dreams and continues up the hall.

Even with the ambience of peaceful snores in the background, the House is particularly quiet today. Poking his head around the corner into the west wing proves entirely fruitless: not only is Thanatos nowhere to be seen, but even Achilles is missing from his post. Perhaps it’s time for his usual round of the House, though how he keeps it punctual down here, Zagreus has no idea.

He lingers around Than’s favoured spot for a few moments, staring down at the livid waters. The Styx is the only thing to look at from this end of the corridor, and it’s not exactly decorative. For a fleeting instant, Zagreus wonders whether Than would appreciate a rug, like the one he purchased for Achilles, before he snorts as he remembers how little use Thanatos has for any floor covering, no matter how deep its pile.

He shakes his head and shoves himself away from the balcony.

“Hello, my friend,” Orpheus greets him as he crosses the hall.

A not-insignificant part of Zagreus wants to pretend he hasn’t heard. Orpheus is pleasant enough company when one is in high spirits, but right now Zagreus feels like grabbing the Twin Fists and leaping right back into Tartarus to punch some things.

But Orpheus is his friend.

“Hi, mate. Enjoying a few moments of peace before my father gets back from wherever he’s disappeared to?”

“Oh, you know,” Orpheus replies, with a nervous laugh. “I would not wish to speak ill of my eternal employer. At least when his post is occupied, I am able to overhear news of the mortal realm from the shades who gather to petition him.”

Zagreus cocks his head. “That’s possibly the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about him.”

Nodding vaguely, Orpheus strums a few chords; it seems as though their conversation is over before he fixes Zagreus with a piercing stare reminiscent of Eurydice herself.

“Now then, my friend, enough about Lord Hades. Would you accompany me to the lounge, as you once persuaded me? There you can tell me the tale of how your latest ill-fated journey has painted your visage with such dejection.”

“Orpheus, it’s a nice thought, but I–”

But Orpheus is already rising, his lyre set carefully on the floor by his seat. “No, no, my friend, I insist.” And Zagreus, his mouth still open in astonishment, is propelled towards the lounge. In the time it takes for him to regain his composure, he’s been perched on one of the new stools and had a goblet of nectar thrust into his hands. He hopes it’s not one of the ones he gave to Dusa: he’s beginning to suspect she stashes them here rather than drinking them herself.

Orpheus takes a delicate sip from his own glass, then gestures fussily. “Go on, Zagreus.”

“I…” Zagreus’ instincts tell him to bluff. To knock back his drink and laughingly tell Orpheus his latest heroics of being beaten to a pulp by Alecto, most vicious of the Erinyes. _Though don’t let Meg know I said that_ , he’d say, conspiratorially patting Orpheus’ arm. Then he’d gracefully allow the subject to drift back to Eurydice, most dear to her musician’s heart, and upon which her husband will no doubt wax poetic for the remainder of their time here. Excuses made, Malphon swiped, wretches punched.

Perhaps it’s the nectar that gives him pause. It might not be on the same level as Olympian ambrosia, but it has a hypnotic quality to it. When Zagreus tilts his glass, it takes a fraction longer for the amber liquid to flow than he’d expect, and in that moment, he takes a breath.

“I talked to Charon,” he begins. “Inasmuch as you _can_ talk to Charon, I mean. And it made me realise some things. Important things, that I hadn’t considered.”

He’d half expected Orpheus to jump in with an anecdote of his own, but he just surveys Zagreus over the rim of his glass, his dark mop of hair drooping about his face.

Zagreus takes a swig of nectar. Its sweetness helps overpower the lingering taste of blood at the back of his throat. He lets his second sip linger on his tongue, wishing that the words would flow as easily. Swallowing, he continues. “When I decided to leave here… I was so focused on getting away from my father that I forgot to consider anything else. Any _one_ else, specifically.” Zagreus groans and shoves a hand through his hair. None of this reflects well on him, he’s painfully aware.

“It is difficult to consider others when we are moved by our passions,” Orpheus murmurs, and Zagreus glances up to catch the tail end of a smile on his pale face. “But I am interrupting you, my friend. Do continue.”

“I think we’re talking about very different passions, mate. I was too angry to think.”

Orpheus puts down his glass with a _clink_ and steeples his fingers. “Do you believe it was love that fuelled me, when I followed my Eurydice down to the Underworld and stood before your father’s throne to demand her return?”

 _Wasn’t it?_ Zagreus opens his mouth to say as much, but something holds him back. Perhaps it’s the newfound flintiness in Orpheus’ eyes.

“My friend, it was not love. Love may have been its inception, but it was unadulterated fury that steadied my voice and my steps that day.”

And Zagreus believes him. For the first time, he pictures Orpheus as he once was, clutching the body of his young wife, shrieking a curse to the skies in a song to make the stars weep. Naught but hot injustice to guide his path down into the belly of the earth as he composes the blazing dirge that will thaw the heart of Lord Hades himself long enough to grant a single, conditional reprieve.

Orpheus blinks, owlish, and suddenly he’s once again the doleful shade Zagreus knows. “There is as much anger in grief as there is sorrow. Suffice it to say that I do know a little of what you speak, though it is but a distant memory.”

Zagreus’ goblet is almost empty. In a few words, Orpheus has shared more with him than he’d have thought possible, and his conscience is pricking at him to return the favour. Trust is given, after all, not bought with a few bottles of the good stuff. He clears his throat.

“I mean, it’s like you’re always singing – don’t look back. And I was trying not to, I wanted to move forward, make a real change here. But I can’t do it without hurting people I care about.”

Orpheus leans forward and puts a hand on Zagreus’ forearm; his grip is surprisingly strong. All those years of lyre practice, perhaps. “My friend,” he says earnestly. “The songs I sing are drawn from my own life, such as it was, and my own experiences. I would be remiss if I allowed you to interpret them as universal truths. They are _my_ truths, and those of my Eurydice, but they need not be yours.”

Zagreus hangs his head, exhaling. “But I have to find my mother. I have so many questions.”

“It is a difficult situation, and I cannot pretend to have an answer for you,” Orpheus says, “but I am certain that those who care about you will lend what support they are able. For my part, I will eagerly await tales of your heroic exploits on the surface.”

At that, Zagreus manages a faint smile. “Then I’ll have to come back just to regale you with them.”

“Quite so,” Orpheus replies, almost brightly. With an air of finality, he pats Zagreus’ arm and rises, only slightly unsteady from the nectar. “I wish you luck, my friend. My thanks for the company.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” Zagreus replies automatically, and is faintly surprised to find he means it. Perhaps he doesn’t know Orpheus as well as he’d thought.

He watches the retreating figure mingling with other glowing shades until the shock of hair vanishes around a corner, and wonders – not for the first time – what it takes for a mortal to retain their distinct characteristics after death in the way that some do. Great men like Achilles are understandable – his legendary feats would have won anyone a place in Elysium ten times over – but Orpheus? To have earned a posthumous position as the Underworld’s court musician was unprecedented, and despite his stint in solitary confinement, Hades had kept Orpheus around. His singing left just as much of an impression down here as Achilles’ spear did on the Trojans.

From the Great Hall drifts the sound of gentle chords. Zagreus swallows the dregs of his nectar, hops down from the stool, and stretches. Wouldn’t do to be stumbled upon by Meg while he’s sitting here drinking alone: he’d never hear the last of it. Besides, Malphon is calling to him.

Nonetheless, he lingers in the east wing to exchange pleasantries with Nyx. Head still reeling from his unexpected heart-to-heart, Zagreus can’t bring himself to raise the issue with her of his desire to leave. Instead, he passes her a bottle of nectar from his growing stash and tells her how grateful he is for her unwavering support. She gives her usual graceful thanks, and Zagreus slinks away towards his chamber, feeling strangely sheepish.

Zagreus has always been forthcoming with his feelings; it’s served him well in this house, amply stocked as is it with individuals who would rather deal with the business end of a weapon than a hint of emotional vulnerability. It’s what first earned him the attention of Meg, long ago, when he plucked up the courage to tell her outright that he liked her.

 _Aren’t you refreshing_ , she’d said, with something akin to a smile, and in a burst of obstinacy he’d asked her what that was supposed to mean. _I’ll let you know_ , she replied, coiling her whip. _Some of us have work to do_. But she’d shot him a backward glance as she left.

Despite this habitual honesty, somehow it’s far more difficult to talk to Nyx recently, though Zagreus knows there’s something he wants to set straight. Something about motherhood, and family, and gratitude. It’ll take him a little while to find the words. For now, he hopes the nectar is enough, even if it feels more like an offering to a benevolent deity than a loving gift. In a way, it’s both.

In his chamber, Zagreus pauses for a moment, palms flat on his desk, head bowed. He breathes in. Out. The Fated List itches at the corner of his vision, and he can hear the humming of power from the courtyard beyond, where his weapons await his touch.

Okay, that’s enough stillness. One more time.

**iii. Asphodel**

After the damp cool of Tartarus, Asphodel’s heat hits like a physical wall. Zagreus lingers in the antechamber for as long as he dares, splashing his face with cold water from the fountain and wishing his wounds would heal just a little bit more. When he pushes through the doors, he swears he feels some of the deeper cuts instantly cauterise.

Zagreus runs hot – always has – but Asphodel is something else. It makes him want to gasp, but the air scorches his lungs so much that he has to fight the urge. The ground has a sponginess to it, as though the warm rock is always on the verge of rejoining the magma below. Even fishing here is fraught with risk. Linger too long near the bubbling Phlegethon and you’ll wind up singed. It’s impossible to take the same route more than once when the narrower paths are swallowed by the river on a whim. The whole place is a monument to temporality: a rare enough reminder in the unchanging Underworld, and a warning – not that Zagreus needs it – not to stay in one place for too long.

A purple gobbet of pure energy floats past where Zagreus’ head was mere moments ago. He dives behind an igneous boulder, which shudders with the impact of another projectile, but holds for long enough that he can slot another Bloodstone into Coronacht and keep up his momentum. Emerging from behind the rock, he aims at the projectiles’ point of origin and grins as the arrow explodes into a glittering wine-tinted haze.

If he ever gets the chance in person, Zagreus is going to give Dionysus the biggest bottle of ambrosia he can find.

There’s no Olympian message for him here. Just a pomegranate, which he nonetheless tucks into with gusto as he hops onto the raft to the next chamber. It sends a pleasant tingle through him, lips to fingertips. It’s not always obvious exactly what benefit the fruit gives him, but their incredible persistence to grow here of all places must surely point to their divine properties. Plus, they’re tasty.

Zagreus is wiping juice off his chin when the raft hits the bank with a gentle bump. He almost misses the telltale greenish flash up ahead, until a familiar drawl accosts him.

“Still at it, I see.”

“Thanatos.” Zagreus hurries forwards, picking his way between luminous puddles of magma. “How are things with work? Haven’t seen you around the House much of late.”

Thanatos makes a noncommittal noise, surveying their surroundings. Zagreus takes advantage of the brief pause to suck the residual stickiness from his fingers. Skelly might never forgive him if he were to return Coronacht with a pomegranate-stained bowstring and sticky grip.

When he looks up, Thanatos is regarding him with a somewhat pained expression. It quickly resolves itself, but Zagreus raises his eyebrows nonetheless.

“What?”

Thanatos ignores the question. “You have the butterfly I gave to you.” He nods approvingly. “Stay back then, and it’ll make you stronger once I’m finished here.”

“Pfft, as if that’s ever how this goes,” Zagreus responds, though his head is filled with the way Than’s mouth had twisted at the sight of him. He’d wanted to run into him out here – it’s why he’d picked up Coronacht and pinned Than’s butterfly to his chiton – but if he’s still angry…

“Zag, look out.” Thanatos’ scythe cuts between Zagreus and an errant Bloodless. For an instant, a faint purplish shadow hovers above its head, before it turns to nothing more than a puff of dust. “That’s two for me in the time you’ve been standing there gawking.”

Well, he doesn’t sound angry.

Grinning, Zagreus shoves all three of his Bloodstones into Coronacht and takes aim. Two skeletons explode into purple glitter. “Even,” he calls.

Thanatos throws him a look of disgust from the other side of the chamber. “What in all the Underworld have you done to that thing?”

“It remembers its previous wielders,” Zagreus says, ducking under a bony swipe and sending an arrow through his assailant’s femur. Its skull is suffused with a red glow, and Zagreus counts to three before Ares’ curse finishes it off. “This is how Hera preferred to use it. Three.”

“Considerate of her to save you the trouble of aiming,” Thanatos replies drily. “Six.” Bone shards flutter around him.

Zagreus scoops up his Bloodstones, loads one, and fires – it’s true that he doesn’t aim as carefully as he might otherwise have done, but he’d rather die than admit it to Than. “Five.”

He throws himself into the fight as best he dares, ever mindful of the power of the butterfly he wears. His pride won’t let him sit back and allow Thanatos to do all the hard work, despite it coming as naturally to Than as… well, as not breathing.

“Fifteen.”

Zagreus whirls around. “ _Fifteen?_ How did you–”

Something solid strikes the centre of his back, cutting him off. The butterfly at his shoulder withers, but he can’t open his mouth to apologise to Thanatos. Coronacht is glued to his hand, and Asphodel’s glow has been extinguished.

Dimly, Zagreus picks out a triumphant remark from Thanatos: he’s doing well, then, wherever he is. It’s hard to care about their competition now. Numbness has spread from his spine to his skull; his ears are filled with a strange grinding sound, rock on rock, as the blood in his veins solidifies. His millstone heart cracks mid-pump; he feels it twist against the gorgon’s power before it succumbs. Given enough time, he’ll be nothing but a familiar-shaped addition to Asphodel’s fields of craggy boulders. The idea is briefly alluring: no more struggle. No more bloodshed. Just peace.

“Zagreus.” Than’s voice, loud in his ear and harsh with worry. “You have to move.”

Impossible. He’d shatter into a thousand pieces. He’s not even sure he remembers how to walk.

“You were slow, Zag. Hit by a gorgon head, of all things. How embarrassing for you.”

Zagreus would snort if he could. Is Than trying to mock him into oblivion? Experimentally, he tries to dash forwards. It’s possible he’s imagining the small wobble he manages to produce.

“I thought not staying still was one of the things you pride yourself on being good at.”

There! A distinct tremor. Hairline cracks appear along his limbs as they strain against the petrification.

“If you keep standing there, I’m sure one of Asphodel’s denizens will happily use you as a hatstand.”

And Zagreus bursts free of the curse in a cloud of dust, laughing and coughing. There’s fine powdered stone clogging his lungs and settling on his eyelashes: he scrubs at his face with one hand.

Thanatos has retreated a little, back at his customary height. “You should be more careful,” he chides, but there’s relief in his eyes and his disapproval lacks bite.

“Never been caught out by one of those before.” Zagreus’ voice is only a little shakier than he’d like. He steadies himself and gets to his feet. “Anyway, how about that centaur heart?”

Any lingering concern in Than’s face evaporates in favour of incredulity. “I took down far more than you did.”

“Come on, Than. Can’t you just…?” Zagreus grins, cocks his head, and tries to ignore the post-petrification pounding in his ears. Is his pulse always this obtrusive?

Thanatos is adjusting his shoulderpiece. “What?”

“You know. You must have the heart on you. Can’t you just–” smiling wider, almost coy “–give it to me anyway?”

He wants Thanatos to pause, at least to consider, but there’s barely a beat before he replies.

“No.” It’s firm and brooks no argument, but Zagreus is nothing if not tenacious.

“Promise I won’t tell Father,” he tries.

“No.”

“Then why not? You’re helping me either way, you know.”

He’s flirting with danger here, poking at what he knows is a sore point. This isn’t how their game works, and they both know it, but since when has the Prince of the Underworld played by the rules? If Thanatos is going to try and pretend as though he’s not truly aiding his escape every time he shows up scythe in hand, Zagreus is at least going to make it difficult for him.

“I’m not arguing, Zag.”

Apparently considering the matter closed, Thanatos withdraws as he speaks, gliding across a river of magma towards the little boats moored there. Despite his flame-stepping feet, Zagreus is not fireproof, and watching Than’s impassive retreat while he has to pick his way across lights up something fierce inside him.

“What _are_ you doing, then?” he demands, perhaps more harshly than he intends. “Why bother coming here just to float around – don’t think I haven’t noticed that the shades never get anywhere near you.”

Thanatos’ face is unreadable but his shoulders tense as he wheels. “If you can’t handle a little competition, Zag–”

“But it’s not a fair competition, and you know it! You could show up and give me some _real_ help.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“You made the rules! Why’d you have to be such a stickler for them?”

There’s a green flash so bright it sears his retinas. For a moment he thinks Thanatos has simply left in a fit of pique, but then everything seems to dim. He blinks: no, it’s not dimmer, it’s as though the colour has leached out of the world. Around them, the river still bubbles lazily, but it’s less vivid: viscous mud where it was scorching magma. The candles have taken on a pale, ghostly hue. It’s like being petrified all over again, except for the crispness of Thanatos’ next words.

“You’re asking why I abide by the rules?”

Zagreus has never heard Than sound like this. His voice is the same but it’s painful to listen to: the weight of thousands of souls speaking all at once. He draws himself up with the full force of his being: a chthonic son of darkness, terrible and inescapable. All of Asphodel’s saturation is his now. There’s rich violet in the deepest folds of his cloak and dazzling gold sparkling along the curves of his pauldron. His brow is knotted with frustration, but it only partially shades his blazing eyes.

Zagreus’ own eyes water just to look at him, but he can’t tear his gaze away.

“Perhaps you should take a moment to imagine what might happen,” Thanatos says, slow and deliberate, “were I not to follow the rules.”

 _You know that’s not what I meant_ , Zagreus wants to say, but his mouth won’t obey him and his throat feels like he’s swallowed a spoonful of the Phlegethon itself. Instead, he gapes like a hooked Gupp as Thanatos shakes his head, visibly holding himself back. “You don’t understand, Zagreus. You can’t ever understand.”

Then he flashes out of sight, as though he was never there.

All of the colour floods back into Asphodel in a rush; Zagreus blinks in disbelief. The river flushes orange and the candles around him regain their warmth, but he has never felt colder.

Why is it that conversations with Thanatos never go according to plan? Hadn’t he intended to apologise? Instead, he’s poked and he’s prodded at the unnatural distance between them and all he's achieved is to drive Than further away.

Their argument is still running through his mind as he hops onto the Barge of Death – _why not?_ he thinks – and raises Coronacht in readiness. It’s a difficult encounter, and one in which he needs to be entirely present, and yet his focus keeps drifting back to the regret in Than’s eyes, the hurt in his voice. _You can’t ever understand_.

Why had he asked for the heart, when he knew he’d lost? And why did hearing the inevitable answer make him so furious?

Zagreus looses an arrow towards a silent blue Voidstone and hears it shatter on impact. He’s already moved on, slotting in another Bloodstone and turning on his heel to–

 _WHAM_.

On a positive note, he’s died in more painful ways. At least an inferno-bomb is quick.

**iv. The Lounge**

Zagreus has shared about five words of small talk with Megaera before she tells him to shut up and tell her what’s wrong.

“Can’t do both,” he replies, whip-quick, but Meg deflects his humour with a scowl.

“I won’t ask again,” she says. “If I wanted to spend my break drinking with a wretch, I’d go to Tartarus.”

“Charming,” Zagreus mutters, hiding behind another gulp of nectar. But then he sighs. “Do you think I’m a selfish idiot? For all this escape business, I mean, not in general.”

To her credit, Meg regards him over her goblet and spares him her usual sarcasm. “I did, at first. Part of me still does. But… you’ve pulled this escape stunt how many times now?”

“Twelve, according to Hypnos.”

“Twelve,” Meg repeats, and if Zagreus didn’t know better, he’d swear that was admiration in her voice. “If you get out – if you find her – then things may change. But for now, the House has settled. Things aren’t what they were, but you’ve established something of a routine. Haven’t you noticed?”

He suddenly realises she’s right. Ever since he first dove headlong into Tartarus, he’s been finding a rhythm – a beat that has guided his feet and his hands, and led him unerringly to Meg and her sisters; to the Bone Hydra he’s affectionately named Lernie; to Theseus, his newest nemesis. Back at the House, Hypnos greets him with a smile, Achilles enquires after his latest venture, and Nyx offers some sage advice or kind word. Zagreus has fallen into these habits without a second thought, as though he’d been born for nothing else.

Megaera acknowledges his open mouth with a wry nod. “You can be so dense, Zag.” There’s no heat to her insult.

“But… what about afterwards? I have this urge to apologise to everyone who thought I was leaving for good – Nyx most of all.”

“Zagreus. Look around you for once. Lord Hades aside, the only person who isn’t trying to help you get out of here is me, and that’s because it’s my job to stop you. Even Thanatos is risking his position for you. Nyx herself put you in contact with the Olympians. Would you throw that back in her face?”

Zagreus sighs into his drink. “All right, all right. I understand.”

“Do you? Or are you going to keep torturing yourself about this?”

“Why does every conversation with you turn into an interrogation?”

Meg grins; her armour flashes gold. “You forget who you’re talking to.”

“As if I’d dare,” replies Zagreus. After a moment, he adds, quieter: “I’m afraid I’ve ruined things with Thanatos, though.”

She gives him a stare that’s half sympathy, half condescension. “What did you do?”

So Zagreus explains, in faltering words and tapering sentences, how seeing Thanatos now feels like remembering something long since lost; how Than showing up to help him escape flares up a feeling in Zagreus’ chest that’s certainly not the gratitude it should elicit; how their last encounter ended in acrimony.

“He told me I wouldn’t ever understand, and pulled that vanishing act of his.” Zagreus has his head in his hands and is addressing his empty glass. He groans. “If every conversation with you is an interrogation, with him it’s a fight. Worse than that, because he’s always so collected and I wind up feeling like a petulant child.”

Meg snorts, and Zagreus looks up in surprise. “What?”

She smirks at him. “Nothing.”

“Come on, Meg. Please.”

“If you’re really so clueless, I can’t help you,” she says, infuriatingly. “My break’s over.” She pushes her own half-finished drink towards him.

“You know you’ve not helped at all,” Zagreus gripes, but he downs the nectar nonetheless. It’s been pleasantly warmed by her palms on the glass.

“Tsch. I meant what I said, before. You’re running from yourself. Just because you’ve found a balance for now doesn’t mean that’s no longer true.” She tosses him a smile over her shoulder. “Thanks for the company.”

One of the first times Zagreus defeated her in Tartarus, Meg cornered him afterwards. _Everyone’s saying I went easy on you, Zag. You get past me like that again, you best go all the way._ It was a furtive conversation, whispered and hurried, but it had sent pride through him like one of Uncle Zeus’ thunderbolts. Her whip might have told a different story when she was on duty, but he knew Meg was quietly rooting for him, and it meant the world.

He’s known Meg and Than all his life. He knows how devoted they both are to their respective duties. Why does Than’s help feel so hard to accept, when Zagreus is fully aware of how much he’s risking to give it?

Zagreus’ head is still spinning as his feet carry him unbidden to the courtyard outside his chamber. Numbly, he reaches for Stygius: he’s most comfortable with the blade, his first chosen weapon. Today, however, the sword feels sluggish and unwieldy in his hand. Giving it a final swing, he shakes his head before sliding it back into place and reaching for an altogether more satisfying weapon.

“Sword not cutting it?” Skelly inquires from behind him, snickering at his own wit.

Zagreus tries his best not to laugh; the last thing his courtyard companion needs is encouragement. “Hey Skelly?” he asks, turning around. “Did you ever have a partner, in life? Someone you cared about?”

Skelly lets out a huff of… something, if not air – and folds his bony arms with a _clack_. “Whoa, heavy talk for an early morning, pal.”

“Do you know it’s morning, or are you hazarding a guess, knowing there’s a slim chance you’re correct?”

The skeleton cackles. “What’s it to you, anyway, whether I had someone in my life?”

“I don’t know, mate,” Zagreus responds, loading a fresh clip. “Perhaps I just want to get to know a little better the Bloodless who stands around near my chambers awaiting only my arrival to wreak destruction upon him.”

“Aw, boyo, you’re making me blush. C’mon, you gonna take a shot at me with that thing?”

So Zagreus does, rolling his eyes at Skelly’s enthusiastic _yeaaaahhh!_ as he crumbles to dust under Exagryph’s onslaught. He reloads and, for want of something better to do until Skelly reconstitutes, turns to examine his cabinet of keepsakes. He still has Orpheus’ distant memory tucked away in his chiton somewhere from his last unfortunate attempt. Fishing it out, he realises he’s never really looked at it properly before. A small golden sphere, barely visible in the light, glimmers in its container. The skull on its lid has a wraithlike glow, keeping its intangible contents firmly enclosed. Is this what a mortal’s memory looks like? Zagreus squints at it and wonders what recollection Orpheus treasures enough to seal away like this.

He jumps when Skelly speaks again, his re-arrival unusually stealthy.

“To answer your question, boyo, yeah, there was a special someone. I had a wife.”

Zagreus almost drops the keepsake. “You – you did?” he manages, not daring to turn around.

“What, is it so surprising? I was a handsome fella, back in the day.” Skelly trails off, sounding wistful. “But she was… she was really something, lemme tell you. You ever meet someone who makes your heart skip, well, you better grab hold of them, pal, and don’t you ever let go.”

Zagreus runs his fingers over his collection: rings, sigils, and vials. Zeus’ signet crackles at his touch, making his hair stand on end. Demeter’s barren cornucopia sends goosebumps up his arm. The coin purse from Hypnos is velvety, and clinks softly. Zagreus’ hand stills when it comes to the amethyst butterfly nestled unobtrusively in its niche. Its power is nothing so blazing as that of Zeus, nor homely as that of Hypnos. Instead, its fragility serves as a reminder – a silent encouragement, even – to keep safe.

Thanatos can never know how long Zagreus has agonised over his gift and its significance.

“What happened to her?” he asks, fingertip tracing the outline of one delicate wing. “Your wife.”

“Oh, you know, she died.” Skelly says it lightly, almost carefully. “And don’t you get any fanciful ideas about reuniting us down here, boyo, I heard what you’ve done for Achilles, and I don’t want anything like that, got it?”

Zagreus chooses to ignore that last part. He asks instead: “What was her name?”

Silence for a beat. Then Skelly says, “Skelliope,” and Zagreus’ mouth falls open. He spins around to see Skelly shaking, clearly struggling to hold it together. “Or was it Skelliantha? Skekate?” At Zagreus’ aggrieved expression, he cracks up entirely, howling with laughter.

Zagreus groans. “Was _any_ of that true?” he demands, but Skelly is too far gone to give him an answer even if he wanted to. Exasperated, he snatches up Than’s keepsake and pins it onto the fold of fabric over his heart. He’s half out of the courtyard before Skelly recovers himself enough to call after him.

“Next time, less of the personal questions and more shooting, boyo!”

Zagreus huffs and leaps back into Tartarus.

**v. Elysium**

Zagreus grunts in pain as he staggers backwards from the Brightsword’s slash. His shoulder erupts into a litany of stinging motes, and as he turns in disbelief, a torso-sized magenta orb looms large in front of him, tiny butterflies curling around it like eddies of smoke.

There’s no time to grit out a curse; he dives sideways as the warrior shade swings for him again. It misses by a hair and hits a fallen column, which splinters as though it were wood. The shade yanks the sword free and bears down on Zagreus as he cowers behind Aegis, praying the mighty shield can withstand what’s coming.

The exalted warriors of Elysium are bright in aspect but not in nature. Right now, Zagreus has never been more thankful. Granted, the shield bruises his shoulder with every bludgeon of the warrior’s sword, but he’ll take that over weathering the attacks himself. He presses himself against what’s left of the column and scrabbles at his belt. His heart sinks, however, as he finds what he’s looking for.

“Blood and –agh–”

The Brightsword slams into Aegis once more, and there’s nothing for it. Zagreus squeezes Mort between his bloody fingers and thinks furiously of Thanatos.

There’s a flash of light, but it’s not the familiar green he’s expecting. One of the butterflies slips around Aegis’ rim and fizzles on Zagreus’ fingers, clenched around the buckle. He hisses through his teeth and grips tighter.

“Come on, Than.”

Nothing happens. There’s another sting on his knuckles and another against his cheek. More butterflies swarm into view, and he struggles to maintain his grip on Aegis as the Brightsword hammers him again. His respite is over.

With a gasp, he throws himself to one side, away from the vortex of butterflies. The Exalted jabs at his heels but Zagreus is faster, and he makes a mental note to thank Hermes next time he sees him. Scrambling upright, he brings the shield to bear and launches forward, propelling the warrior backwards. Its spine hits a one-armed statue and both of them explode: the statue into a smattering of stone shards and the Exalted into a shower of sparks that swiftly coalesce into a bluish, gently flaming teardrop. It begins to drift towards the barely visible shadow of its fallen sword.

“Oh no you don’t,” Zagreus spits, readying Aegis once more – but he’s interrupted by a hail of butterfly stings across his right shoulder. He whirls and flings the shield on instinct, but it simply rebounds off a wall, destroying a couple of urns in the process. It flies back towards him and he leaps to snag it out of the air, positioning himself near enough to the shadowy sword that the soul, wherever it’s got to, will have to go through him if it wants to fight once more.

The pink glow intensifies as the orb silently approaches. Soul catchers, Achilles calls them, each unassuming butterfly one of a multitude, all whispering their indecipherable abhorrence to each other, and in turn being fed by it. Unlike the Exalted, these butterfly balls fight not for honour or a lingering sense of duty, but because they’ve simply forgotten how not to hate.

Zagreus drops into a defensive stance. “You know, Than, now would be a really nice time for you to get here.”

The soul catcher, unsurprisingly, doesn’t respond. Zagreus darts to one side and gives it an experimental slash with the side of his shield. He’s fought these things before, even rehearsed their tactics with Skelly back in the courtyard at home. The trick is to keep moving – or at least, to move faster than the clouds of butterflies.

_Best way to deal with ‘em is from a safe distance, but if you have to get in there, you gotta be light on your feet, boyo. Those butterflies might not pack a lotta punch on their own, but if you let ‘em, they’ll swarm on you like bees to honey, you get me?_

And Zagreus had innocently replied, _What’s bees?_

(Achilles had patiently explained later, with Skelly’s cackle still ringing in his ears.)

Now, Zagreus circles around, jabbing at the thing whenever there’s a gap in its defences, and keeping a watchful eye on the dropped sword all the while. The butterflies are many but they fly unnaturally slowly. Elysium is supposed to be a paradise: there are containers brimming with flowers and occasionally he can catch a glimpse of some real butterflies – or at least, what Zagreus assumes real butterflies are like – dipping and fluttering between the blooms. He wonders who is responsible for them; it’s not as though they’re to his father’s taste, and they are strangely incongruous with the shades that occupy this place.

A final bash from Aegis and the orb simply dissipates. The souls inside it aren’t noble enough to spawn individually, perhaps. Whatever the reason, Zagreus is grateful for it. The welts on his arms are a testament to how tricky they are to get rid of.

Something whizzes past his peripheral vision: it’s the colour that catches his attention as much as the movement, lurid magenta against Elysium’s gentle pastels. Zagreus spins, throws the shield, but the figure dodges and it ricochets. A barrage of arrows follows the first, and he’s cursing his own stupidity at throwing away his only form of defence as he dives behind a pillar.

In focusing on the sword, he’s forgotten about the Exalted soul, wafting quietly across the meadows. It hasn’t circled back to its original sword: rather, it’s found another weapon. Specifically, a longbow. Blood and darkness, why couldn’t it have been just another sword?

He’s running, always running. Elysium’s lack of magma makes it distinctly preferable to Asphodel, but he still has to watch his step. The long grasses can conceal any number of terrain irregularities, and the last thing he needs is an arrow in the back while he’s sprawled on the floor with a twisted ankle.

On the other hand, he also doesn’t particularly want an arrow in the back due to his own slowness either. Today, Hermes’ help is worth its weight in gold. Zagreus is doing a pretty sterling job of avoiding being shot when a glint catches his eye. Aegis, lying innocuously in a clump of grass as though it had nothing whatsoever better to do.

The Strongbow is over to his right, its eerie glow moving hesitantly along behind a bush: it’s lost track of him for the moment, and a plan begins to form in his mind. He picks up one of the smaller amphorae that seem to litter these fields – gently, gently – and then he throws it overarm, as far away from Aegis as he can.

The ensuing crash sends the archer racing in one direction and Zagreus in the other. Vaulting a mossy table, arm outstretched, he’s almost reached it–

 _Slam_.

Zagreus’ body skids along the ground. Bemused, he blinks up through a sudden haze of tears at a bluish figure, sword bright with blood.

 _Oh,_ he thinks absently. _There were two of them_.

And then the searing, white-hot pain in his ribs kicks in. All he can do is curl in on himself, gasping for air and clutching his side. What’s left of his rational thought screams at him to get to Aegis, to some semblance of protection, but in his blurry peripheral vision the Exalted raises its arm to strike again. He scrabbles for the shield, but there’s nothing he can do. The sword slices into the meat of his bicep and he screams: in pain, in frustration, and in grief.

Thanatos isn’t coming. The way Zagreus treated him when last they met has toppled the fragile, unspoken balance between them.

The warrior pulls back: regrouping, not relenting. Somehow, Zagreus finds the strength to grab at Aegis’ strap. With bloody fingers, he yanks the mighty shield as far over him as possible, grimacing as the wound between his ribs pulls open further. An arrow glances off its surface and the Exalted’s heavy sword slams down once more. Zagreus makes himself as small as possible. He thinks of Achilles, ending a war over lost love. He thinks of Euridice, carving out a home for herself despite her heartbreak. Even cheerful Sisyphus, determinedly heaving Bouldy with no fear of the Furies’ whips.

So many of those he loves would be disappointed in him now, cowering in a lonely corner of Elysium.

_I’m sorry, Than. I didn’t mean to._

One of the Exalted tries to tug Aegis from his grip and he resists feebly. But his fingers are slick with blood and the sodden leather simply slides through them. He grabs at it – the movement is futile, and sends another tremor of pain through him.

“Zagreus. Stop.”

Aegis is firmly pulled away and Zagreus braces himself for the killing blow that will send him hurtling back home to his father’s disdain.

When it doesn’t come, he cracks his eyes open.

Everything is so green, Elysium’s natural verdure suffused with a cool glow. Hovering nearby is an almost imperceptible bluish shadow: the last remaining impression of the fallen Exalted’s sword. And beside him, kneeling, an even more shadowy figure.

“Than,” Zagreus croaks – or at least he tries to.

Thanatos ignores him. Instead, he delicately peels back Zagreus’ bloody chiton, hissing through his teeth. “Not good.”

“Than,” Zagreus repeats, and this time perhaps, it sounds like a word. Thanatos drops the fabric and glances up, piercing.

“You with me?”

Zagreus exhales, wheezing a little as his ribs protest at the movement. He’d rammed a fist into his side and his fingers are starting to cramp, but he doesn’t dare remove it yet. Dull twinges emanate from the wound, but they’re less frequent than they were. Vaguely, he wonders if it’s his godly heritage beginning to heal itself, or whether his beating heart is simply relinquishing its grip.

“Tell me what to do, Zag.”

Something inside Zagreus’ chest melts a little at the panic in Than’s voice. This isn’t his domain: his role is to oversee death, not to intervene. Faced with a body broken beyond rescue, his instincts are to scoop out the soul and send it flowing down to Hypnos. That’s his duty. That’s the way things have been for millennia. The idea of helping – of _delaying_ death – must be totally alien to him.

Zagreus’ eyes have closed of their own accord. “It’s – _augh_ – it’s okay.”

“And just how do you fathom that?”

A little normality: he smiles, and it’s as though there’s a sunrise in his chest, a flame that wasn’t there a moment ago. A power not gifted by one of the Olympians, but something innate, something that is all his own. Could he…?

Zagreus concentrates. He’s never been able to do this at will before, but there’s a first time for everything, and this would at least be an excellent way to render Than speechless.

“Don’t leave,” he rasps.

“I’m not goi–”

That’s as far as Thanatos gets before Zagreus’ whole body erupts with a brightness that makes the hallowed fields around them lose their splendour. His limbs flex, his spine arches, and for a moment he feels himself leave the ground entirely. As the stab wound between his ribs knits itself back together, he gasps in pain: it’s always like this, hurtling towards the edge of unbearable until his fists are clenched and his mouth opens to scream _no more, stop, **no more**_ –

And then it’s over in one brilliant, agonising instant. Zagreus breathes, reorienting. His feet have made charred footprints in the grass but it’s cool against his palms as he pushes himself upright.

Thanatos is sprawled backwards, agape and staring.

Zagreus very much wants to make a witty remark, but there are tiny white sparks playing along his arms, fizzing gently as they touch the welts left by the butterflies and leave nothing but unblemished skin behind. All the aches have lifted from his bones and left him deliciously weightless. He’s grinning like an idiot and the stupefied look on Than’s face is the final straw: he bursts out laughing.

Thanatos’ expression sours, but that only serves to tickle Zagreus further. He knows how much Than hates not understanding something, but it’s seldom that they’ve found themselves a moment such as this, and he can’t help but enjoy it.

“What in the realms was that?” Thanatos demands, but Zagreus just dissolves into another fit of giggles at his expression. “Seriously, Zag, what did – stop _laughing_ – what did you just do?”

But it’s too late, he’s already cracked; Zagreus can see the smile curling the corner of his mouth despite how clearly he’s fighting against it. The sight makes him feel buoyant, like he’s swallowed a bubble. He hasn’t seen Thanatos relax like this since…

Well, since he found out Zagreus was leaving.

To his credit, Thanatos recovers himself admirably, gathering himself to kneel a few inches above the grass. “If you’ve no intention of explaining yourself, there are many other places I am needed.”

It’s an empty bluff, Zagreus hazards. No matter how busy he is, Thanatos is never frantic. Never too rushed to spare him a few moments. “I didn’t say that,” he replies. “Forgive me if I sometimes enjoy it when I’m privy to something you’re not.”

“Tsch.” Thanatos’ eyes narrow, but he doesn’t vanish.

Zagreus grins. “I call it defying death,” he says casually, watching as Than’s expression wavers, as though he’s wondering whether he ought to take offence. “It’s something I can do every now and then. Not every time. I think it stems from when I almost died at birth, and Nyx asked the Fates to intervene.”

Thanatos considers this. “It wouldn’t be the first time my sisters have given something more than they were asked for.”

“Well, it’s been invaluable out here,” Zagreus replies, shrugging.

“This isn’t something to be flippant about, Zag. You know what happens to mortals who cheat death. Don’t take it so lightly.”

“If you’d come when you were needed, I wouldn’t have had to.”

The words come out laden with blame where he’d intended lightness, and Thanatos jerks his head to one side as though he’s been slapped. He rises fluidly to his feet.

“Than, I’m sorry – look, that’s not what I meant–”

Zagreus scrambles upright as Thanatos flits a stride or two away before stooping to pick something up from the grass. He turns as Zagreus approaches; it’s Mort in his hands, tattered and soaked with scarlet. He thumbs one of its fraying ears, but does not speak.

Hesitantly, Zagreus reaches out, and when Thanatos doesn’t move away, he takes Than’s hands within his own, both of them holding Mort like an anchor.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I was half-joking, really. I know your responsibilities come first, and the last thing I want to do is get you pulled in for a performance review with my father.”

Thanatos makes a dismissive noise. “That’s the last thing I’m worried about. Lord Hades knows I’m the most conscientious employee he has.”

“I think the Fury sisters would disagree,” Zagreus says, with a half-smile. There’s a pause, during which he watches Than’s thumb gently moving to and fro. The tendons of his hands shift under Zagreus’ palms: hills and furrows. “I… I know your help is a boon, and I don’t take it for granted.”

“I want you to be able to rely on me,” Thanatos replies tightly. “Even when things are busy with work.”

Guilt courses through Zagreus, hot and sickening. He should have taken another Companion; he knows how stretched they are. It’s evident in Hermes’ strained tone, in Hypnos’ never-ending lists, in Than’s long absences from the House. But Thanatos is usually so swift, his aid instantaneous, and it’s good to see him, if only for a moment. Reassuring to know they still have this, even after all the harsh words they’ve exchanged of late.

Zagreus lifts Mort from Thanatos’ hands, slow enough that Than can stop him if he wishes. He doesn’t.

The Lethe churns as Zagreus’ feet turn it scalding. He wades in to thigh depth, then submerges Mort in the water. It’s warm against his hands, and the blood washes away in brownish clouds: plentiful at first but growing sparser under his careful ministrations. The ears are the most delicate, but they come up to their usual soft tan as he rubs them between finger and thumb. As if Mort, like so many of the Exalted who reside here, would readily forget the violence to which he has been witness.

“No harm done,” Zagreus says, with a final rinse. The remaining water runs clear when he squeezes. Mort is still a little damp, and as bedraggled as ever, but he’ll do. Zagreus is about to suggest Than takes him on a quick jaunt back to Asphodel to dry out completely, but the words shrink in his throat as he glances up. Thanatos has drifted closer, hanging in the air above the river, perfectly still and gazing at him with indescribable tenderness.

Zagreus’ breath catches. They’ve been at such odds recently, butting heads over this and that. He’d almost forgotten how bright Than’s eyes can be.

In the back of his mind, Orpheus’ voice: _there is as much anger in grief as there is sorrow_. And Meg’s casual reminder: _even Thanatos is risking his position for you_. All the words unsaid, all the bitterness, all the abrasion in their recent encounters – if it could be explained away – if they’re grieving something they haven’t yet lost–

It’s not something he can think too hard about. Linger a moment and he knows he’ll lose his nerve. So Zagreus doesn’t think, doesn’t hesitate, just stands on tiptoe. “Don’t leave,” he says, and catches a glimpse of Than’s wide eyes before he kisses him.

It’s soft: Thanatos is pliant with surprise, and Zagreus lost all semblance of rational thought the moment he decided to do this. He keeps it chaste – _oh gods, what if I’ve misjudged_ – and pulls away before he wants to. Opening his eyes feels like a leap of faith.

The light in Elysium has changed. Its cool blue-green hues have faded to white-greys, the grass ashen and the vines steely. The water flowing around Zagreus’ legs is unnaturally colourless. And Thanatos… Thanatos is incandescent.

He’s misjudged.

Oh gods, he’s misjudged.

Nothing Zagreus has seen of Olympus’ splendour, nothing he’s imagined of the surface’s treasures, nothing he’s encountered in all his father’s mysterious domain, none of it could have prepared him for this. Every line of Than’s body is etched in gold, with a vibrancy that leaves purplish afterimages on Zagreus’ eyelids when he blinks. His face, usually cloudy marble, is now sculpted light. It hurts to look at him, but gods damn it, if he’s ruined things between them once and for all, Zagreus wants to drink him in for the last time.

His forearms are seized in a grip of iron and Zagreus is led out of the Lethe, stumbling a little up the bank. His feet dry instantly, steam curling in the air. His eyes never leave Than’s face.

Thanatos lifts his hands and Zagreus almost flinches, but he only removes his gauntlet. With deliberate care, he places it in a tuft of shadowed grass. He’s rarely seen without it, and his slender fingers are highlighted by its absence. He plucks Mort from Zagreus’ unresisting grip and nestles him in the same place. Then he reaches forward and takes Zagreus’ face between his hands.

Zagreus forgets how to breathe. Sombre gold fills his vision as Than looms over him. He raises his chin – or perhaps Thanatos tilts it, thumbing his jawline; Zagreus is too dazed to tell.

“Don’t leave–” he bursts out, suddenly terrified, groping for Than’s wrists, eyes screwed shut against his radiance.

A _tsch_ of indignation. “Stop saying that, you idiot,” and any retort Zagreus could have mustered is blissfully silenced.

Thanatos’ kiss is restrained: even in this, he is guarded. But he cradles Zagreus’ face with such adoration that he melts, explores his lips in a way that speaks of long-held desire. If he’s been holding back – if they could have had this sooner–

Well, isn’t Zagreus just as much to blame?

He sighs into the kiss and slides one hand up Than’s arm. His skin is cool to the touch and Zagreus doesn’t miss the frisson of tension that shivers through him as his fingers curl around the back of his head.

They don’t touch each other, even platonically. Sure, they’ll brush against each other in the heat of battle, but it’s always brief, always accidental. Whenever there’s a choice, they keep a respectful distance. The halls of the House of Hades are plenty wide enough to allow it, after all, and Zagreus knows that’s what Thanatos prefers. Even growing up together, he’d always appreciated his personal space; not that it was always easy for Zagreus to acquiesce, he of the easy smile and casual touch.

It’s difficult to reconcile those old habits with the way Than is now gently holding his head in place to kiss him, with the way his mouth slackens slightly when Zagreus pushes back his hood and runs a hand through his hair. Thanatos – Death Incarnate, carrying himself with an ageless gravitas and the weight of his duty like a mantle. How long has it been since anyone held him like this? Who would dare to think of it?

Zagreus pulls back, breathless. Neither of them relax their grip. The light has faded and Thanatos’ face is wreathed in shadow. His expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes are hooded and his lips parted, and for once Zagreus can read him like a codex.

“How long?” he demands, and Thanatos blinks at him. “How long would you have waited otherwise?”

When Than replies, it’s slow as the Styx at low ebb, and for a moment he reminds Zagreus of his sleepy twin brother. “As long as it took.”

Thanatos doesn’t make grandiose statements; this is unvarnished truth, and a large part of Zagreus wants to simply pull him back into an embrace. But it’s too new to feel natural just yet, and it’s far easier to extricate himself with a half-step away. He opens his mouth and then shuts it again when he realises he has no idea what to say. How can he convey the fluttering, unfettered joy in his chest alongside the mortifying realisation that they’ve both been colossal fools?

“Are you going to waste what little time we have in staring at nothing?”

Evidently Thanatos has recovered himself. His familiar wryness in the wake of the seismic shift that they’ve just experienced is welcome, and Zagreus shakes his head, laughing.

“I’m sorry, I just… wow, Than, did we just – I mean, did that really–?”

“It did.” A smile plays around Thanatos’ lips; Zagreus wants to chase it with his own. But it lasts only a moment before Than makes a distracted noise. “Ugh, work calls. I’ve already stayed too long.”

“It’s okay,” Zagreus says, and this time it really is. Is it daring now to take Than’s hand? Is it a risk to entwine their fingers, palms pressed together? “I’ll see you at home.”

Thanatos’ delight spreads slowly across his face, like ripples on water. “Goodbye, Zag.”

And Zagreus’ hand is suddenly empty. He huffs out a laugh that bubbles up unbidden from his chest and goes to retrieve Aegis.

If his radiant grin is mistaken by King Theseus for naked provocation, so much the better.

**vi. House of Hades**

“Y’know, I always look forward to you popping out of the Pool there. You’re a lot more talkative than most of the shades who pass by me. Though I have to hand it to them – they sure find the wildest ways to die!”

Zagreus shakes blood from his hair; he’s quite adept at it now. “Thanks, Hypnos. I’ll try to mix it up a little.”

“Oh, don’t mind me! All your Redacteds and Natural Causes must mean you’re improving.” Hypnos spins in the air happily. “It’s been _ages_ since you got blown up, or strangled, or just plain old stabbed.”

“Have to admit, I don’t exactly miss being stabbed to death on the regular,” Zagreus replies. He glances towards his father’s desk, at the hulking shadow occupying it. Lowering his voice, he asks, “Actually, Hypnos… what do you say to Redacted when I… when he gets back?”

Hypnos casts his gaze in the same direction. “Um, I make myself scarce.”

“Sounds sensible,” Zagreus nods, sidestepping Hypnos’ outstretched legs and continuing up the hall. In the west wing, Achilles is in his usual spot, but the balcony at the end of the corridor is vacant.

Achilles – shrewd as ever – notes his attention. “Looking for Thanatos? I’m afraid I’ve not seen him in some time. I hear grim tidings of the surface from the shades who’ve recently arrived.” His voice is clear as a bell, and Zagreus grimaces, his father’s proximity like a brand against his back. He’ll have heard every word. But Achilles has more to add: he leans forward and murmurs, “My advice would be to go straight to your chamber, lad.”

Zagreus has already opened his mouth to ask why when realisation dawns. “Oh,” he says, stupidly. “ _Oh_. Thank you, sir.”

He’s halfway across the great hall when Orpheus pauses his strumming and raises a hand in greeting. “Hello, my friend. I must say, you look much happier than when I saw you last.”

“Yes, I – hi, Orpheus – listen, thanks for your advice, I can’t tell you how useful it was, really, but right now I need to–”

“Boy.” Lord Hades’ voice fills the room, echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “That shade is in my employ to provide ambient music and occasional song. Not to chatter and gossip on my time with the likes of you.”

Any other time, Zagreus would have stood his ground and shot back an acerbic retort for the insult: partly for his own sake, and partly for the sake of Orpheus, who cannot risk his station. Right now, however, he’s too focused on the entrance to his room – not quite visible from here – and what waits within.

“Funny, I would’ve thought moody silence was more your style, Father,” he says, with an apologetic shrug to Orpheus. “We’ll catch up later, mate.”

He rounds the pillar towards the east wing, almost vibrating with urgency, and dashes headlong into Meg, who is waiting for him in Nyx’s haunt, surrounded by the bluish flowers Zagreus had the house contractor place there by way of apology. Or thanks. Nyx seemed to appreciate them, anyway.

The sight of Meg among the abundance of blooms makes him blink. It doesn’t take long for him to compose himself, but she’s already smirking at him.

“Hold it, Zag.”

“Meg, I can’t talk right now, I–”

She clamps a hand over his mouth, and hey, that’s hardly fair. He stills.

“Listen, you fool. I’ve known Thanatos a long time. I want you to know that I’ve never seen him as preoccupied as this. Or,” –she continues firmly, as Zagreus tries to speak– “or as happy. He couldn’t keep a stupid smile off his face earlier, and that’s unprecedented.” Her gaze bores into him for a moment more before she removes her hand.

Zagreus licks his tingling lips. “What, that’s all you have to say? No jealousy? No threats from your whip if I hurt him?”

“Do you need them?” Meg asks, folding her arms. Her whip catches the light as she shifts her weight; he’s sure she knows it. “I can’t see you making the same mistakes you made with us. And I’d be quite the hypocrite if I succumbed to jealousy like a mortal, wouldn’t I.”

“It would make your job harder,” Zagreus agrees. The scent of the flowers is heady, like dusky honey. He leans forward. “But I have to ask… are we good? You’re okay with this?”

Meg cocks her head, and Zagreus can’t place her expression. “Who do you think put Thanatos up to it?” She grins, sharp at first, but softening. “I appreciate you asking, though. Now get out of here.”

At Meg’s gentle shove, Zagreus stumbles towards his room. A faint purple glow emanates from within – Nyx’s mirror, such a contrast to the sickly light of Ixion that illuminates the rest of the Underworld. He stops, one hand on the drapes that frame the doorway, and takes a deep breath.

When Death awaits, he does not pace, or shuffle, or fidget. Thanatos is standing by the bed, perfectly still but for the flowing lines of his cape.

Zagreus’ nervy adrenaline drained away during his conversation with Megaera, leaving him with a floating calm. Dreamlike, he crosses the threshold. With his feet planted on the rug, Thanatos is only a hand taller than him, but it feels right to look up at his face. His hood is lowered, and it makes him seem younger, somehow. The slash of his hair hides his eyes – _seriously, Than, did you cut it with your own scythe?_ – until he brushes it aside. They stare at one another.

“You’re not wearing your…” Zagreus gestures mutely at his own neck. Than’s gorget is notably absent, his bare throat a pale stripe in the room’s dimness. His winged pauldron is missing too, and his gauntlet, and the sword habitually slung at his side, which Zagreus has never seen him use. All the trappings of his duty, carefully set aside. His scythe is propped against the wall, its blade bisecting the poster of Dionysus.

Thanatos hasn’t just waited. He’s prepared.

Zagreus’ mouth goes dry.

Perhaps Than notices his apprehension, because his first words are hurried. “Nothing has to happen here if you don’t wish it, Zag.” He pauses, weighing his thoughts. “But let me ask you this: what are you waiting for? What are you waiting for, I’m here, already. Right…?”

Zagreus has been struggling with his pauldron, but the waver in Thanatos’ voice stays his hands. “Than, you’re right – you’re right!” The final leather thong gives at last, and the skulls clatter to the floor, fangs bared; Zagreus steps over them as Thanatos surges towards him, and they come together like water.

It’s everything it was in Elysium and more; Zagreus presses up into the kiss, tugging Than deeper. Every touch is a release, every shared breath sends relief singing through his veins. They’re not fragile, they’re not broken, and it’ll take more than a little bullheadedness on Zagreus’ part to sunder them. Than’s hands skim over his back before settling at his waist, pressing their hips together.

Thanatos’ skin smells like nothing Zagreus has ever experienced. He’s overheard clusters of shades comparing what they most miss about the surface, and a common lament is the scent of the earth after a summer rainfall. Now, mouthing gentle kisses up the side of Than’s neck, Zagreus thinks he might be able to imagine it: leafy freshness with an underlying warmth.

“We’re… ngh… wasting time,” Thanatos murmurs at last, his tongue clumsy and slow with pleasure.

“I wouldn’t call this wasted.” Zagreus surveys him. Than’s mouth is kiss-bitten, lips parted, jaw slack. There’s a flush across his cheeks like a bruise – for where Zagreus blushes red, Than purples.

 _I did that_ , Zagreus thinks. The desire that has been pooling in his stomach suddenly snaps taut. This isn’t enough.

Hands on Thanatos’ shoulders, Zagreus pushes him firmly onto the bed, crawling up until their noses are level, knees either side of black-clad hips. Another wave of heat rushes through him as Than allows himself to be manoeuvred – easily, trustingly. His heart stutters, and oh, isn’t that something, Thanatos’ blush deepening as Zagreus looks down at him.

“Come here,” Thanatos says, reaching – and when Death beckons, who is Zagreus to refuse? He leans down, chasing the taste of nectar on Than’s lips; he kept them all, then, agonising over every bottle of sweetness.

Thanatos digs a hand into Zagreus’ hair, knocking his laurel askew, and Zagreus chokes back a moan.

“Oh?” Than hums thoughtfully against his lips; Zagreus opens his eyes – when had he closed them? – to catch a glimpse of something akin to mischief on Than’s face.

Oh no. What is he–?

The end of that thought evaporates as Thanatos tightens his grip in Zagreus’ hair, scraping nails across his scalp and tugging with just enough force that his entire body stiffens as though electrified, every part of him instantly attuned to those merciless fingers. The cut-off gasp that escapes him is not something he’s proud of. Head at an awkward angle, he stares down at the burgeoning smirk on Than’s face.

Thanatos’ gaze rakes over his exposed throat, flaming cheeks, half-lidded eyes; the way his mouth has fallen open and his breaths are coming short and shallow. Slowly, achingly slowly, he loosens his grip, and Zagreus relaxes against his chest.

“I’ve learned something,” Than says, his lips brushing Zagreus’ ear, dripping honeyed satisfaction. If he’s going to sound as silky every time he discovers something new like this, Zagreus could get used to it.

“All right, that’s one for you,” he admits. Then he pins Than to the bed with both arms and sucks along his jawline, hot presses of lips and tongue with the barest hint of bite, until Than is writhing underneath him, mute and helpless. Zagreus eases off and gives him a wicked grin. “But I think this makes us even, don’t you?”

Thanatos blinks up at him, eyes luminous in the gloom. “I don’t have enough time.” Hungry regret in his voice. “But we should continue this discussion later.”

“Later,” Zagreus repeats, drunk on the surety that there will be other times like this: the two of them here together, sharing the darkness and each other. For now, they can keep things simple; Zagreus hasn’t yet committed the velvet warmth of Than’s mouth to memory, and he wants to take his time.

They have eternity, after all, and they’re just getting started.


End file.
